Drawing a Blank
by Monty Twain
Summary: On chapter of an old story I've realised I will never finish, but this seemed to stand as an angsty oneshot. *YAY*


The victim was Mary King, my friend's wife.

I sent a telegram that evening, offering to postpone the appointment until a better time and offering my apologies. Here is King's reply:

I need help, and if you could give it I would prefer you to come soon. I want the man who did this hanged. Your friend Holmes is welcome to come as well.

T.K

The telegram came late. Holmes and I briefly discussed it, for I was in shock about the death of a woman I had seen in the estate agents that very day, but we both retired early.

I woke at around five the next morning, and, unable to sleep, I started writing up the previous day's events. Nothing could distract me from them. I had woken unable to recall my dreams but still inexplicably uneasy about them.

I finished the chapter quickly, but felt a need to continue writing. By this point I must have been stressing myself, for I felt the pen I was using scratch the varnish on the table underneath.

Holmes must have come in without my noticing, for he lit his pipe, briefly glowing in the grey dawn light of the room. He was watching me all the time. I was unable to stop writing. I was aware of the tension on the nib of my pen under the weight of my thoughts.

She had had curly red hair, she was about thirty at the most, and though she hadn't been startlingly pretty I could see the love between Thomas and Mary King. Mary. My late wife's name. My pen finally gave way, and I swapped to drawing, with a pencil. The pen hadn't gone fast enough.

"Watson, are you all right?" Holmes was uncertain, and I felt some odd satisfaction in the fact I had caught him unawares.

"I'm very well." I didn't look up. The hint of sarcasm was enough.

I was drawing a scene that had been in the back of my mind, gathering dust contentedly. It was a young man, in a hospital bed, bandages wrapping his chest. I finished quickly. I started to draw Mary King, her red hair reduced to a dead grey, her eyes accusing me. My last picture was Holmes. He was distracting me, eyes boring a whole through my soul, willing me to turn around. I defied him. My pencil pressed hard to draw black hair, skimming the surface pale skin, racing the shadows on his neck, cast onto his suit.

Holmes was behind me. His eyes saw first the pictures, and then my clenched left fist, sweating as the nails dug into soft skin.

"Stop drawing, now, Watson." I couldn't stop. My heart was eating faster than the lines on the page, how could I? "Stop." I couldn't stop. "Stop yourself, or I will!" I continued scribbling.

Holmes grabbed the pencil, forcing me to stand, and we struggled over it. In the end, Holmes had me in a tight embrace, dropping the pencil onto the table. It clattered, the only sound in the house. He wasn't hugging me, but I just felt limp in his arms.

"What were the pictures you were drawing, Watson?" he asked quietly.

"The woman is Mary King, the victim."

"And the others?"

"The first is the boy who lay in the bed next to me in Afghanistan, in hospital. It was my first night; I had been shot that day. The bandage chapped. It was hot and sticky."

"Why draw him?"

"I couldn't sleep that night. He had been shot in the breast, and his breaths kept me awake. Every rattling gasp, I was convinced would be his last. I listened to him die. I felt the air fall out of him. It was like a cool breeze, I- I was _glad_."

"And the last?"

"You can see that's you Holmes."

"But why me, alongside the others?" It seemed an odd question.

"You are crying."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"There are no tears. My shoulders aren't up."

"You don't cry like that."

"I don't cry." This was a lie. He stiffened.

"You don't cry like a normal man, but that is how you cry. See?" We broke apart a little so I could point at it. "Your chin is clenched, your eyes are dull. You aren't holding yourself up. That is how you cry." There was a pause, as he stared at it. As he did, he began to mirror the image.

"Are you crying now, Holmes?" There was another pause.

"Yes," he whispered.


End file.
